Om
by Pes Anserinus
Summary: He once thought that the world was just too slow to keep up with the human race. Now he thinks that life is just too fast paced. Long overdue companion to Namasté.


Disclaimer: Though many things have changed, this remains: I don't own these particular characters, nameless as they may be in this particular little ditty. I do however, have dibs on the idea.

Another Note: Before you read this, take a moment to ponder. What does the word change mean to you? For my interpretation of change, I propose this story; if only to get those rusty existential wheels in my head turning once again. Because today, I realized it was autumn already, and was severely saddened by the fact the leaves had started to change colors without my taking notice. So what is change, and how substantial is it really? It's weird, I know. But just think about it.

* * *

There's a fog unlike any other that graces the foothills in the early morning hours, before the sun decides to greet the new day and dry the dewy remains of night off of the earth. As of late, he found himself rising early to witness the wakening of the sun, and marvel at the deep hues of Prussian blues and sea-greens that held the morning sky hostage. It wasn't as if he'd never seen the sunrise before, but it was more important now, at this point in his life, where the changing sky signified more than the start of another day.

With the world still asleep, he quickly pulled on a pair of tattered blue jeans that had seen better days but were too comfortable to discard, and laced up a pair of boots on his way out the door. Breathing in the morning air was the one way he knew how to feel her again, to be with her, to see... to remember better, somehow.

Starting down the well trod path as the sun rose just barely high enough to paint the tips of the changing autumn leaves with slivers of gold; he folded his hands into fists, abruptly shoving them into his pockets. As much as he enjoyed his newfound morning ritual, a slight tug in his heart served as a reminder that this particular morning would be a more difficult venture than most. His gaze fell to his feet despite the best intentions to keep his spirit higher, and his pace slowed to a mere crawl. He'd reach where he was going soon enough, and that only meant facing the fact that he was alone, again, in more ways than one.

And if he was alone, so was his daughter. The chilly September morning air bit at the tips of his ears, serving as a reminder that they'd both be flying solo this time. But that sadness he felt for his daughter couldn't fully replace the timeless ache he felt for her mother, and the idea that he was powerless to change fate. Facing the pain together would have been logical, surely, but in his own convoluted way, it was better like this somehow, for them both.

The crunch of leaves underfoot echoed throughout the early morning stillness, and only when he finally reached the end of the path did the world fall almost completely silent again. After a few beats, he let his frame settle upon a fallen oak and sighed. He missed her. He missed them both.

Closing his eyes for but a moment, he reveled in the newfound familiarity in the silence, and how, if he listened closely enough, he could hear the world. It was an odd thought, he mused, to hear the world, and not possible in any true humanly context per say. But as he glanced back out to the still clouded foothills, he realized that maybe it wasn't so odd after all. In fact, a certain realization dawned on him, just as the morning had. He had heard the sound of the world once before... seated within his wife's voice...

"I told you to use a coaster," he had mumbled to himself, wiping up the excess condensation from her iced tea with the end of his sleeve.

It was in those seemingly ordinary, everyday moments where he had often found himself wondering how things happened without realizing they were happening until after the fact. Say for example, watching summer fade to fall, or mold grow, or hell, watching ice melt. No, it wasn't possible to actually witness it really, though he knew that change, intangible as it were, happened.

He had taken that condensation ring on the "wooden" coffee table as argument number one.

But what if you could watch a season change, a child grow up, he meant really watch—every cell get larger until it divides, every molecule being oxidized and alternately reduced, was it possible for the human mind to comprehend such a thing?

No, he considered, it really wasn't.

Because who was going to sit for an entire day or month or year or more and actually take the time to witness a mountain form, or a plant grow? And even if he had made an effort to try, he was destined to fail before he even began, because there simply wasn't a way to quantify such a thing. There wasn't an exact moment where all of a sudden everything was different.

No, he figured most changes in and of themselves had to be fundamentally gradual. Huh, gradual. Gra-du-al. Nope, no matter how many times he had allowed the word to roll over his tongue, it still never completely made sense.

Why couldn't he actually witness this gradual concept? How could you be staring at something, knowing that it is changing right in front of you, yet not see?

Well, time lapse photography, he supposed, would solve that dilemma, but that wasn't really... real, in a way. Hey then, maybe change itself wasn't 'really real'. But it had to be, because one day, once it was all said and done, the end result was something quite different.

On the job and rushing through files, paperwork, suspects and victims, he had considered that the world was just too damn slow too keep up with the hustle of the human race. Now he rescinded that declaration and decided that maybe life was just too damn fast paced for its own good.

As he had dried the condensation ring and reached for a coaster, he had made a pact with himself to stop and at least make an effort to see his baby girl grow up into the beautiful woman he knew she'd become. He wanted to be there for it all, every late night bout of colic, every coo and giggle. He simply hadn't wanted to wake up one morning and all of a sudden see a teen with purple hair and spikes around her collar staring back at him.

He just wouldn't have had any of that.

He could recall how her mother's subtle laugh had been his saving grace in his slight melodramatic break-down, for his wife had unknowingly eased him back into the reality of how things really were: changeable sure, but the change itself only noticeable if he was careful enough to slow down and take a second to see.

"It isn't really made of wood dear, you don't have to dry every last inch."

"Yeah, but the table can't help that, and rings form on particle board too."

"What's with you lately, are you really that worried that I'll revert back into where I was six years ago? I'm not the same you know, I'm better. I've changed," she had stated proudly, coaxing him to relax and not worry about a little bit of history repeating.

Yet what she had said, hit that chord within in. "I don't want this to change. I don't want to wake up one day and realize everything is different."

"We're parents now," she said with a smile, "everything is different. I'm different—better. I can handle things this time, I promise. I can deal."

"No, that's not what I mean. I mean... I don't want to miss it."

"You won't."

"How do you know?"

She had rolled her eyes and simply wished he'd calm down and come back to earth for a minute. That he'd stop worrying about what he was going to miss, before he would actually miss something because of it. She handed him the baby, who bore a striking resemblance to herself, crossed her legs in a gallant gesture, and placed the backs of her hands on her knees before closing her eyes. She then proceeded to make a show of humming in a deep otherworldly tone that made him wonder if she'd gone into another psychiatric relapse.

However that moment of sheer terror at the thought of raising his little girl without her mother lingered for but a moment at the time, as the sound of her hum had soothed him so.

He wished that it could have soothed him on the crisp autumn day a decade later... when that terror came back to haunt him, for the rest of his life.

And now, as he looked out into the morning that had surprisingly succeeded in mirroring pieces of his past back at him, he came to realize something inherent to mankind the world over. No matter how much people strove for and reveled in familiarity, there would always be changes in life that have to be dealt with, eventually. He could see it plainly, plastered amongst the wispy clouds—how his life had been so severely altered in a matter of minutes, yet again hadn't, in another way. He resolved that some things were never meant to truly become different at all.

It all depended upon slowing down and looking at the final picture, from a fresh angle; because even if you couldn't witness the process per say, the end result was still there.

With an unexpected smile, he turned his attention to the whisper in the trees, and that deep guttural hum of the earth that reminded him that his purpose in life was to come, simply be, and then go. His spirit finally fitting, and the mood somehow lighter in spite of his heart's perpetual ache, he ever so subtly allowed himself to join in and be at peace with the vibration of the earth, as his wife had once, so openly, many moons ago.

"Om."

* * *

Addendum: If I was the sort that had more foresight, I would have labeled a story entitled "Sanskrit Series" or something and put my last two pieces together, but alas, hindsight is 20/20, foresight is more like 20/200. So this is simply a companion to Namasté, and as dear to my heart as that story was, I felt it deserved a friend. I hope I did it justice.

Oh, and the Sanskrit symbol of 'Om' is not actually a word, per say, but a symbol that stands for a universal sound of life and peace... think Tibetan monks and meditation and you have the sound I'm going for. And if you've never heard the monks chant, I suggest you do so, at least once.


End file.
